


For My Life, Still Ahead; Pity Me

by krispyscribbles



Series: Queen [2]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Freddie is alive, Gen, based on 39, brian is just sad, even tho there isn't a vehicle that travels at near light speed, it'll make more sense when the chapters come out, it's actually just your run of a mill ford, it's technically time travel but i based it on the principles of time dilation, john isn't reclusive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-11 11:12:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17445845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krispyscribbles/pseuds/krispyscribbles
Summary: Mads Taylor was sent to the abandoned but well maintained Taylor Estate to claim it as her own, but a man with a blond mullet who was declared legally dead thirty three years ago changes it all.Inspired by the song '39 because learning those lyrics is damn difficult when you put the lit in illiterate ¯\_(ツ)_/¯





	1. New Beginnings and Dying Memories

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a mess but it'll make more sense with more updates. For Simon Ferocious aka Tyler.

_ Here the ship sailed out into the blue and sunny morn _

_ The sweetest sight ever seen _

 

She only needed to glance up to see that she had arrived to her destination. 

 

An imposing home with three meter tall fences (an aesthetic blend of a stone base and a wooden middle panel) stood quietly at the end of a dead-end street, not a sliver of life to be seen from the meticulously cleaned windows. Most would cower and turn away - even the neighbor’s delinquent children - but Olympia (Mads, if you please) Taylor entered the driveway of the three storey high mansion without hesitation. 

 

Her fingers twitched as she turned off the ignition and reached for her satchel, filled with water and snacks. Sliding it over her shoulder, Mads shut the door of her Honda Civic with a fluidity only attained through habit. Her ankle boots clicked along the recently repaved pathway to her grandfather’s house, but no one was home. Nimble bassist’s fingers found the key and slid it in with ease and she let herself in the home frozen in the past.

 

Considering that it was designed at least 35 years ago, her Grandfather’s home was brilliantly decorated. She had been told about her Grandfather’s odd sense in fashion by Brian, Freddie and John, but the tasteful overstuffed white couches with emerald green throw pillows that greeted her seemed to beg to differ. It was sparse but impactful; framed photos adorned the wall above the fireplace and not a television was seen, the curtains a neutral beige to match the light theme of the room. It was a nice change to Freddie’s house, which was filled with expensive but dated objects that she grew up in. 

 

Thinking about Freddie made her shoulders slump. She was basically raised in his home while her mother worked day in and day out in a lab, freely running around and being spoiled with luxury. Though she was spoiled, Mads found the most joy from Freddie telling her about her grandfather - whether it be about petty fights and anger boiling over, hugging and partying until the sun came up, Mads craved stories about the father of her mother. When she was eleven, Freddie indulged her in the story of how her grandfather had disappeared. 

 

Mads, of course, knew this. She had been told about Grandfather Rog, the disappearing drummer, by her mother. How he’d simply vanished after a rather successful show at Wembley Stadium in 1986, ne’er found despite the five years of searching. 

 

Her mother had been three when her father had vanished and she died hoping that she would be reconnected with him. It wasn’t an unintentional reunion. Her mother had developed cancer when Mads was three and passed away a few months prior to her visit to the Taylor Estate at sixteen. 

 

Mads hated the number three. Three symbolised everything bad; her Grandfather had disappeared when his daughter was three, who had developed cancer when Mads was three and died on December the third, 2018. To make things worse, Mads had decided to start moving into the Taylor Estate on the third of March, 2019. Thirty three years after her Grandfather disappeared in the first place. 

 

She couldn’t hate him.

 

She hadn’t come here on a whim. She was here in a well-kept but vacant home that was frozen in 1986 to move her grandfather’s things into a storage unit. Brian, John and Freddie - the men who had raised her in her mother’s absence - couldn’t control what Mads’ mother could do, but they could at least insist that Roger’s home be passed down and his possessions treasured when the woman they had collectively raised inherited the property at sixteen. 

 

They even offered to pay for the storage unit in order to keep their dearest friend’s things in their possession, which Mads had accepted. However, no one had come to help Mads as she slowly packed her grandfather’s clothes, mourning a man who she had never met. Even when Brian insisted they at least get their children to help Mads, she insisted that she could do it at her own pace. 

 

Not only was she keeping them away from Roger’s memory: she was keeping what was remaining of her family to herself. Although she had an aunt and an uncle, they had never bothered with their father’s things. Her aunt was born months before the incident and her uncle was six when his father had disappeared, so it was definitely a tender spot for the both of them. They had let her mother - the middle child - take possession of it when the time had come, but even then no one lived in it. Mads could understand the sentiment at least, but leaving such a beautiful home untouched for thirty three years was extreme at most. 

 

Despite her views, Mads still felt bad. Though some of his things were positively atrocious, Mads couldn’t help but feel guilty whenever she put something in a box to go in the trunk of her car. It was like this monument, a beacon of her grandfather’s identity, was being stripped and she was replacing it with her trendy modern things. Things like the landline and the computer were easy enough to get rid of - John took them and had given Mads three hundred quid for the computer alone - but nonsensical notebooks filled with doodles and lyrics were hard to put away.

 

It felt like Roger Taylor’s legacy was being taken by a great pretender. It was an unavoidable truth, but it was bittersweet when Mads thought of how fondly Brian spoke of his dearest friend, as though he was recalling seeing him a few days ago rather than 33 years ago. She couldn’t stop now: slowly but surely, the master bedroom was mostly neutralized. The dressers were mostly empty, the walk-in closet didn’t look overstuffed with clothes that were never to be worn again, the vanity was cleared of ridiculous hair styling products. All that remained were the photographs scattered about, the awards and other forms of entertainment in the bookshelf, the whole bed, all the instruments, Grandfather Rog’s cologne bottles and a wide variety of his clothing. Mads had even gotten a grasp of the sunglasses he wore on the night he went missing, left with sixteen layers of dust on it. 

 

She reached for her phone to shoot a quick text to Brian to excitedly tell him about all the things she had found, but she restrained herself. Though they raised her, there was always a barrier between her and them. Maybe it was because she looked like him with her big blue eyes and irritatingly fluffy hair or that she was a living reminder of what they had lost. Either way, they looked at her with a sad longing; out of the three of them, Brian’s was always the one that broke her heart. His eyes would always water as his mind wandered down a winding path marred with painful reminders, only to snap out of it and insist that he was fine when Mads asked. It made her wonder what could have been: that was never a good thing.

 

With a heavy heart, she slid her phone back into her pocket and flopped on the bed. It was already one in the afternoon and she had tackled one of the seven bedrooms - she hadn’t even gotten started on the music room, the office, the upstairs hangout area, the attic, the basement, the cellar or the pool house. Maybe rejecting help wasn’t the smartest move when your grandfather was Roger Taylor, a man of excess. 

 

Mads rubbed her eyes, irritated at her lack of progress and the tears that wouldn’t staunch themselves until she consciously thought of it. She could feel her temper flaring - infamously identical to her grandfather’s, as John had once commented - so she decided to shuffle through the four crates of vinyls to calm down. She wasn’t surprised at the amount of rare Deep Purple vinyls in the collection, but she was surprised to see a lot of limited edition Metallica records. Her grandfather hadn't struck as a heavy metal kind of person, but maybe he owned it because most of the records he had were limited pressings. Mads did quite like them, but seeing them was stuff of legends, so she put them towards the back of the third crate and moved on. She settled on Sgt. Pepper’s and laid on the bed, drowning her misery with The Beatles in the futile hope that the gaping hole in her chest would be plugged by a record that was nearly fifty two years old. 

 

Mads hadn’t even noticed that her eyes had drifted shut until she heard a car sputter into the driveway. Her body tensed and she slid off the bed, grabbing her satchel and sneaking to the bannister since the master bedroom was only on the second floor. Her hand came over her mouth when she saw the doorknob jiggle and open, nearly passing out when she saw an identically ruly mop of blond hair. His eyes darted around and the unease was palpable even from this distance. Mads didn't dare to whip out her phone, frozen in place as his eyes flitted around.

 

“Hello?”

 

Roger Taylor was standing dumbly at the doorway of his own home, wondering why it was so quiet. 

 

_ For many a lonely day sailed across the milky seas, _

_ Ne'er looked back, never feared, never cried. _

 

“Hello.” 

 

Olympia Beatrice Meddows Taylor looked down at her thirty seven year old grandfather, gnashing her lip in fear but standing proud. 

 

_ Don’t you hear my call though you’re many years away? _

**_Don’t you hear me calling you?_ **


	2. Greetings from the Past in the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Did you find some things that that rotter Roger stole from us?” Brian’s voice tinkled with amusement, making Mads laugh.
> 
> “Something like that, Bri. Bye!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rubbish but trying to explain how someone could drive for thirty three years non-stop is also rubbish so let's enjoy a flaming pile of rubbish.

_ The volunteers came home that day _

_ And they bring good news of a world so newly born _

 

Roger Taylor had honestly never felt so weirded out in his life. 

 

He noticed how utterly odd London had become and he seriously had to ask himself if he was hallucinating or not. The forty five minute drive back home seemed to last forever; it stressed Roger out because  _ goddammit, he was going to be late _ . He felt like he’d been stuck in a colossal traffic jam given how slow he was going, but there wasn’t a car to be seen. 

 

It did get boring, but Roger promised John that he’d temporarily house his favorite bass in his music room as he and Veronica prepared to move to a bigger, better house. It was an odd request, but John was odd himself so Roger agreed. There were parts of his journey when he really regretting agreeing to it, but Roger had an abundance of CDs that he hoarded in the glove box so it wasn’t that bad. 

 

Everything seemed to be...off. In a blink of an eye, buildings would appear and stores would change and it was all so baffling to Roger that twenty minutes into his drive, he had focused on belting out lyrics even if his voice hurt. The windows seemed to be jammed as well, so Roger was stuck with his shitty air conditioning that he’d repaired last week with John. They’d forgotten to get an air freshener, so Roger was left smelling feet or not having enough cool air to keep his focus. 

 

It seemed like an eternity when he pulled into the driveway. His car sputtered and he frowned when he noticed the weird looking car in his driveway, grabbing the guitar case and his sweater from the backseat. His fingers shook as he slid the key inside the slot, wiggling it slightly and using his shoulder to open the door. 

 

Roger half expected to be tackled by his three kids, but all that welcomed him was silence. He could hear a pin drop if he wanted to. A shiver shot up Roger’s spine and he licked his lips, still holding onto the guitar case as though it were a weapon.

 

“Hello?” 

 

Roger nearly bit through his lip as he anxiously waited for a response. The guitar case was basically cradled in his arms and he didn’t dare to take a step forward. 

 

“Hello.” 

 

Roger had nearly yelped. 

 

A girl, no older than sixteen, was leaning on the wall, looking down at him from her vantage point at the top of the stairs. Her hair was a mass of fluff, blonder than his, and her eyes were the saddest gems in the universe.

 

_ Your mother’s eyes, from your eyes, cry to me. _

 

The girl, who looked like every bit of a Taylor as he did, descended the stairs with a confidence that was undeniably his as well. Roger set down the guitar case and his sweater, sliding his sunglasses up to his hair. 

 

“My name is Mads Taylor.” Roger’s focus snapped back to her, taking in how alike they were. It was impossible that he’d have a sixteen year old daughter; his eldest was barely six years old. “I’m your granddaughter.”

* * *

 

Roger’s brain felt like it was fizzing. 

 

Mads Taylor (the only Taylor to wholeheartedly accept Meddows as a part of their legal name), his  _ granddaughter _ , had explained what had happened in the alleged thirty three years he was gone. The band had, well, disbanded, one of his children - and his granddaughter’s mother - had died of a vicious cancer of the oesophagus, the three remaining members of Queen had raised his grandchild and Mads had inherited Roger’s property as his eldest had rejected it. 

 

They’d talked about the mundane, the heavy and the funny, but it left a gaping question in their unusual tale: how had Roger disappeared for thirty three years, only to turn up in a thirty seven year old body? Both of them had mused for hours on end, mulling over each theory with mugs of tea, yet weren’t even close to figuring it out. 

 

Mads cleared her throat and looked at Roger, a strange gleam in her eyes. “Why don’t we invite the boys? Brian got his astrophysics degree, it’s inevitable that he’ll know what to do.”

 

Roger almost choked on his tea, setting the mug down. He felt every bit a grandfather as he watched the gleam dissipate and for a more sheepish expression to cast over her face. 

 

“Are you mad? How d’you think they’ll react when they see me in a thirty-seven year old body when I’m supposedly legally dead?” Roger chastised, feeling bad as Mads apologized. He couldn’t find it in himself to say that it was alright: as much as he admired her cheek, reckless thoughts lead to reckless actions. He couldn’t risk her making the wrong decision, even if the bandmates that he loved dearly had taught her that she could fall back on them. 

 

Mads nibbled at her lip, eyes flickering as she thought of a way to articulate her thoughts. Roger thought he was looking in a mirror. 

“Well, Rog, you can’t hide forever. Rumors’ll go ‘round and the neighbors most definitely saw you pull into the driveway. Wouldn’t it be much better if you had simply let them see you rather than them seeing you on the front page of a newspaper?”

 

Damn.

 

She had a point. 

 

Roger had hoped she didn’t have a point, but Mads was settled on getting the three remaining and correctly aged Queens. He had watched, mesmerised as she tapped on a glowing screen and raised it to her face. 

 

“Hello? Hi, Bri!” Mads sounded chipper, absolutely masking the newfound knowledge that she’d found out about. She pulled the phone away from her face and pressed a button. 

 

“Hello, Meddows! How are you? Do you need anything?” Brian sounded warm like always and it hurt Roger to hear. Even if it seemed like he’d heard Brian wish him well an hour ago, it was like a backhand to hear it. Roger craved to say hello, but Mads pinched him.

 

“Bri, would it be possible to get you, John and Fred to the house?” Mads’ voice shook slightly when she made eye contact with Roger, but Brian didn’t seem to notice.

 

“Of course, darling. Did you find some things that that rotter Roger stole from us?” Brian’s voice tinkled with amusement, making Mads laugh.

 

“Something like that, Bri. Bye!”

* * *

 

Roger ran his hand through his hair, nervously picking at his fingers. They were still taped from Wembley since he had a few blisters show up: it was weird to think that the tape around his very fingers was thirty three years old. He continued to fidget and eventually slid his glasses off of his head, setting them on the table. Mads had said that they didn’t live too far away (twenty minutes at most), so they would be able to stay for dinner and go home to their families before it became too late. 

 

Roger’s heart ached at the last statement. Realistically speaking, he had two children and a grandchild, his sister and her children; the only problem was that only his grandchild knew he was still alive, his son had relocated to Boston and his daughter would have no interest in seeing the man who had (unwillingly) abandoned her less than six months after being born. His sister was in no state to see him and her children would have no idea who he was. 

 

Mads was his only living direct family member. While he certainly loved her, it hurt that there was one living Taylor left in such a lonely world. Besides her, but who recognized legally dead people to be alive?

 

“You finished moping, Rog?” Mads teased, ruffling his hair and leaning on the top of the couch. Roger frowned but nodded, and not a second later there was a knock at the door. Mads rushed to answer the door and Roger’s head whipped around to his lap, trying to breathe as quietly as possible.

 

Hugs were exchanged and Roger could hear them remove their shoes while they made small talk with their mutual surrogate daughter. He had never been more terrified in his life. They were staying by the front door and Roger all but screamed, tightening his closed fist and closing his eyes. 

 

“So, I spent all day clearing out Grandfather Rog’s room.” Roger shuddered at the term. “And around one o’clock, when I had taken a break, I saw the car in the driveway pull up. He was carrying a black and white striped sweater and a guitar case.” 

 

Roger could’ve sworn that the room had dropped five degrees. 

 

“The man who stepped out claimed to be Roger Taylor. And he’s sitting in the living room.” 

 

_ For the earth is old and grey, little darling, we'll away, _

_ But my love this cannot be. _

_ For so many years have gone though I'm older but a year. _

* * *

 

Mads watched anxiously as Brian, Freddie and John stormed into the living room, their old bodies moving with a fluidity that had otherwise dissipated as the years dragged on. Roger’s doe-like eyes looked up to them and tears welled in them, but he still smiled. 

 

Mads slipped into the corner of the room as Roger stood up, staring at the wrinkled, somewhat pallid face of Brian May. 

 

“After all these years, you still insist on keeping the poodle hair?” Roger cracked a joke, laughter and sobs muffled into Brian’s jacket. John and Freddie stood side by side, mouths agape, as two best friends met again, only thirty three years late. Mads almost cried at the sight of Brian’s eyes, which were the saddest she’d seen them become. 

 

Roger pulled away from Brian and held onto his chin, staring pensively in his best friend’s face. Then, he smiled to himself and booped Brian’s nose, moving onto the shell-shocked John Deacon. 

 

Mads watched as the old flame, which had been nothing but embers since she was but a child, spark between the four of them. John swung an arm at Roger for not giving back his favorite bass, to which Roger cheekily replied, “I would hit you, but old man bones are incredibly brittle, aren’t they?”

 

Freddie and Roger had been a display of tears and sobs, mostly from the former. Mads knew that Freddie was the most devastated by Roger’s disappearance, so to see them reconnect made tears spring into her own eyes.

 

“Roger, if you pull a stunt like that again, I will send bloodhounds on your trail!” Freddie had cried, swatting Roger on the back of the head. 

 

Roger winced and a hand came to the back of his head, pulling away from Freddie. “You bloody dunce, you’re wearing a ring!” 

 

Freddie paled and Roger laughed. Just like the old days. 

 

Brian and Roger were the last to really talk; by the time John and Freddie had gotten tired, dinner had rolled around so Brian and Roger spoke over dinner. It wasn’t anything memorable, but the heartfelt confessions from Brian and Roger made Mads, John and Freddie tear up a little bit. 

 

“You know, we were getting a bit anxious, but I knew something was wrong,” Brian mused, waving a broccoli floret around with his fork. “I remember thinking to myself that ‘I should have gotten you microchipped’.” 

 

The five of them belted out laughter while Roger frowned haughtily, rubbing his neck. 

 

“But when you didn’t show up six hours later, I knew something terrible had happened. I was talking to the police, but they wouldn’t have it. Could you believe it? The police wouldn’t help me find my best friend on the basis that you were  _ fine _ . You weren’t fine - you had vanished! God.” Brian viciously stabbed at his food. “I was fucking furious that they couldn’t find you even after five years of goddamn waiting.”

 

Despite the tense air, Roger laughed quietly and squeezed Brian’s hand. 

 

“One good thing came out of it, though. I never want to sit in the driver’s seat of a car ever again. Can you imagine driving for thirty three years straight?” 

 

Mads snorted and coughed. John gently pat her back. 

 

“Oh, I doubt it,” Freddie interjected. “There are cars out there that can drive themselves, Rog.”

 

John sighed when Mads hummed out the tune of ‘I’m In Love With My Car’. 

 

_ Don’t you hear my call though you’re many years away? _

**_Don’t you hear me calling you?_ **

 


	3. The Future is Moving at an Alarming Rate, Darling

 

_ In the year of '39 came a ship in from the blue _

 

As dawn broke through the horizon, a restless Taylor stirred and groaned, clutching her head. Her home - well, her grandfather’s home - was silent. Brian, Roger, John and Freddie had talked well into the night and had fallen asleep in the living room. There was no way that one could wake them up with nothing short of a gunshot, so Mads took the opportunity to sneak downstairs. She needn’t be so quiet around Brian, John and Freddie, but Roger was still young and could probably hear her footsteps if she walked too loudly. 

 

She had no idea what she was doing as she tiptoed through the house, but she had caught sight of Roger’s car-keys. Curiosity tore at her and she picked them up, contemplating for a moment. She had no expectations as to what she was looking for; it was an inconspicuous vehicle at most, if a little dated. 

 

Her curiosity won over and she took the keys, slipping through the front door and walking to the car. The car unlocked easily enough and Mads sat in the driver’s seat, closing her eyes. 

 

Thirty three years. 

 

He was in here for thirty three years.

 

It felt suffocating and cramped; she wasn’t a tower like Brian, but she certainly wasn’t small. There was sand on the floor, forgotten or impossible to remove, as well as packs of crisps and water bottles, of which only one pack of crisps were opened and half-eaten. Three out of the twelve full water bottles were drained, with a fourth having less than half remaining. Mads chuckled at the thought; her Grandfather was an odd person. 

 

The term Grandfather seemed odd in this situation; Roger was in a body that was only eleven years older than Mads, so it was uncomfortable to use a term typically used for people around Brian, John and Freddie’s age (don’t let them catch her saying that). Her mother never really found the term ‘dad’ to be comfortable for her growing up, so she referred to him as father: subsequently, Mads had given her Grandfather a formal title. Sure, it did hurt when Brian’s grandchildren endearingly called him ‘Pops’ or whatever dated term they’d taken a liking to, but Roger just wasn’t around. 

 

Mads couldn’t blame him. 

 

The emotions charged at her and she leaned on the steering wheel, allowing tears to seep from her eyes. Mads wasn’t a fan of unnecessary crying; she had a disdain for the younger children from her tight knit family, preferring to hang out with John’s two youngest sons and Freddie’s cats rather than the other grandchildren borne under the names May or Deacon. Mads found friends of her own in school; those interested in softball became like a second family and she was remarkably close to the other musicians (bassists in particular). 

Though she never had an aptitude for drumming, it was a learned art form that she had later found pride in. Her grandfather was nothing short of a legend and, from the age of eight, she took drumming lessons in order to get a little speed before opting to find her own way at thirteen. Now, three years later, she was an accomplished bassist and drummer; both drabbled in one another and she found herself immersed in the art of complex rhythmic playing. 

 

With her grandfather here, she could ask him all the questions she ever dreamed of asking. From music to life advice to the mundane, Mads had had her dream fulfilled. The question was how she could achieve that. 

* * *

  
  


“Alexa, play ‘Disco Inferno’ by The Trammps, please.” 

 

“‘Disco Inferno’ by The Trammps: here it is on Spotify.”

  
  


John groaned as he sat up, back aching from sleeping on the couch. His eyes, bleary from slipping into reality, moved languidly, peering at the curious sight on the larger couch. Roger had found himself entangled with Brian, crushed by long limbs in the fear that he would dissipate before Brian would wake up. Freddie was sprawled on the floor, hand entangled with Roger’s. John could have sworn that he and Freddie had fallen asleep on the other couch. 

 

Oh well.

 

John stood up, groaning once again and shuffling to where he could hear music. He had assumed that Mads was awake: poor girl never slept for longer than six hours a night. His brow furrowed at his memories of her restlessly shifting in his arms, trying to fall asleep after her mother had said goodbye on a particularly early morning. John didn’t know that it was for a round of chemotherapy before going to the lab until a month after. 

 

He snapped out of his melancholy state as he nodded along to the beat, coming to a halt when he saw Mads with his bass, wirelessly connected to an amplifier and playing along as she made pancakes and waffles. The volume was moderately low but her bass was loud, making John smile. She had been working on nailing this song for weeks, trying to master it so she could send it as an application to a music school in June. She’d been adamant in avoiding Queen songs, but remained stumped on what song to play until her eyes had fallen onto John’s. 

 

Indeed, she danced much like John used to; she’d spent most of her childhood in his presence and she emanated a very Deaky-style of playing that charmed John from the get-go. They’d spend summers together, fingers gaining new calluses and toughening old ones as they danced along to whatever song they fancied. John could never understand how Mads was able to play heavy metal music on her bass with her fingers, but he watched, amused, as she headbanged to a variety of songs from Metallica’s discography. Her love for them grew to the point of meeting them when she was six as a birthday present from Freddie: John and Brian had been her guardians that night, but the four of them had gone backstage in order to meet the band. Honestly, John didn’t know who was more excited between Mads and Metallica. 

 

“Oh, hi John!” Mads said cheerfully, pausing her dancing spree in order to take the waffles out of the iron and put them on a serving dish. John watched as she deftly flipped a pancake before settling her hand onto the body, frowning as the song finished. He took a seat a fair distance away from her, leaning his chin on his palm. 

 

“Alexa, play ‘Back Chat’ by Queen,” Mads asked, making eye contact with John and sticking her tongue out. John’s eyes, weighed down by sleep and age, sharpened to a deadly focus and his mouth set in a firm line, making Mads laugh. She set a tall mug before him before pouring him a cup of coffee through what John referred to as a ‘hipster coffee machine’. It was a massive glass pitcher with a short but narrow neck, where a (biodegradable) coffee filter would be placed along with coffee grounds. Boiling water, put into a ridiculously dainty pot with a ridiculously long and narrow spout, would be poured over the grounds and it would be allowed to be seep and would be swirled before putting into a mug. 

 

John raised an eyebrow at Mads and she smiled, gesturing to the suitcase she had brought with her. She must have gotten it while they were all asleep, John mused. She didn’t dwell on it, going right back to dancing as she tended to the food. Her fingers flitted across the fretboard, lithe and strong but delicate and flexible. It entertained John and made him nostalgic of a past that he had spent with her, treating her like one of his own. 

 

Much like John, Mads preferred not to sing, so it came as a real shock when a voice, raspy and rough, broke through their little shared trance. Freddie waltzed his way inside, almost stumbling over one of her pedals, and took a seat next to John, seemingly chipper. John stood to get Freddie a cup of coffee, but Mads had already gotten a mug out and filled it with liquid energy before he had stretched. John groaned for the third time, taking a heavy seat. 

 

The three of them chatted amicably - rather, John and Freddie talked, stopping periodically to watch Mads play bass or thank her for food - until Brian and Roger rejoined them, both mussed and very much exhausted. 

 

“Really, Meddows?” Brian complained, still thanking her for his cup of coffee. “Starting the morning off with Hot Space.” Brian leaned on the countertop, smiling as she danced by herself. Freddie couldn’t help but hum the words, far too engrossed in how much like John she acted when she had a bass slung across her shoulders. 

 

John raised his eyebrow at Brian and Roger rolled his eyes, giving Mads a quick hug and kissing her hair before snatching his plate and taking the final seat on the barstool. Mads set her bass down on the temporary stand she’d found, handing out plates and cutlery before getting her own food. She’d brought a little sachet of instant hot chocolate mix in the event that she slept over, which came into use today. She poured it into her own mug and poured in water, adding a splash of milk and enthusiastically stirring the teaspoon until it had all dissolved. Then, she took her pancakes and poured a fair amount of maple syrup on top, adding berries and refraining from adding powdered sugar. Brian would have talked her ear off about eating too much sugar, as she had learned. 

 

John laughed to himself as he watched Brian meticulously ‘observe’ Mads, settling down when she had controlled herself. He then caught Roger looking around the room, a lost expression on his face.

 

“Where did the music come from?” Roger demanded, bumping knees with Freddie as he spun around, trying to find a clunky speaker of some kind. John snorted from behind his mug of coffee. Freddie’s laugh shook the window. Brian smiled, delighted, and opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by Mads poking him. 

 

“Rog, watch this.” Mads licked the maple syrup off of her lip. “Alexa, play Doing Alright.” 

 

Roger’s mouth fell open as he saw a blue ring light up from a black cylinder and a woman respond with a brief, “Okay.” John had to ask why this house, stuck in the mid 80s, had the internet, let alone Alexa. 

 

Roger’s own voice sang to them, breathy and high, and John felt chills go down his spine. He hadn’t heard this song in a while. Tim Staffell’s voice serenaded them for the next verse and John saw Brian’s eyes shut. God, it had seemed an eternity ago when this crazy journey had started in the first place. 

 

As the last words were sung, John’s smile turned sad. 

 

_ Yesterday, my life was in ruin. _

_ Now today, God knows what I'm doing _

_ Anyway, I should be doing all right. _

* * *

  
  


Their little world came crashing down when Brian’s wife, Anita, had called him and checked up on him after breakfast. He’d sighed and let his eyes flicker to Roger, contemplating on telling her what had happened, but he had evaded her question and said that he’d be home within thirty minutes. 

 

John had gotten a similar text from Veronica, who he had reassured with a reply that had taken four minutes to write. God, he was a slow typer. 

 

Freddie hadn’t gotten a message from Jim, but he had shrugged it off and said that Jim would be at home, taking care of the garden. He invited Mads over for the day, given that most of her belongings had been kept at Garden Lodge, but she declined. Roger’s dejected expression had melted off of his face and Mads rolled her eyes, cleaning up the dishes as the four Queens stretched and complained about how much their backs ached. 

Roger, who was the youngest of the four Queens, recovered from his aches and pains the fastest, got the three others sorted and sitting in the living room, shoes on and various phones in hand. He had dropped the keys into Deaky’s hands and turned to Mads, who had finished washing the dishes by the time they had stopped bitching and moaning. 

 

“Bri, I found your white leather jacket in Rog’s closet,” Mads commented, leaning on the doorframe. Brian, who had been swiping idly on his phone (that Mads had charged overnight), looked at the guilty Roger. John and Freddie look at Roger and he reddens, looking anywhere but his tutting friends. 

 

Mads scampers up the stairs and retrieves three boxes full of stuff she knew didn’t belong to Rog; she may have messed up a few items, but after spending five hours digging in clothing, she could tell what clothes were Roger’s and which clothes weren’t his. Roger, despite his guilt, carried two boxes down and placed them on the coffee table. John reached for a box that he assumed was his, followed by Freddie and, finally, Brian. 

 

They rooted through the boxes together, glaring at Roger when they found rather special items that had preserved themselves well. Brian had found a little jar containing a great number of his six-pence coins. Roger looked rather indignant when Brian pocketed it in his large pocket, looking up at him with disappointment. 

 

“Don’t look at me like that, Brian! You can just cash out five pounds’ worth of those coins!”

 

“They stopped making these coins, Rog. They’re obsolete currency.”

 

Roger scoffed. “Stop with your big words, Deaks. You must be joking.”

 

John shook his head and found his black leather jacket, shrugging it on over his turtleneck. Mads laughed when he was shocked that it could still fit it, while Freddie just pinched his cheek and found a pair of clogs with a pack of half empty cigarettes inside the left shoe. They eventually put their things back into the boxes, standing to their feet with little mutters of pain. Mads and Roger took the boxes, taking them outside. 

 

Before they left the house, John slapped a cap onto Roger’s head, slapping the back of his head. Roger grumbled but put the boxes in the back of Brian’s Range Rover, climbing into the car in awe. Brian laughed when Roger fell off the seat, staring at the leather upholstery and stroking it with his fingers. Mads rolled her eyes and opened the door for Roger, gesturing for him to get out. 

 

Roger only got out when the once dormant Deaky glare resurfaced and he got chills down his spine. Mads couldn’t laugh; she’d gotten that glare five times in her life and every single time she was fucking terrified. 

* * *

  
  


“See you soon, darling!” Freddie murmured, crushing Roger with his embrace. Roger wheezed and patted his back, only to be passed onto Brian. 

 

Though they didn’t hold onto one another for nearly as long, Roger felt the same sentiment being poured into their embrace in a way that words would fail to express. Brian didn’t say a word as he slipped into the passenger seat, looking at Roger with fear: Roger didn’t know, but Brian was afraid that if he turned away for just a second, Roger would cease to exist. 

 

John and Roger embraced the longest; the solidarity that they had shared had just sparked and they were saying goodbye once again - no. 

 

They were saying ‘see you later’.

 

Roger wasn’t going anywhere, the universe be damned. 

 

He was home, even if home was unfamiliar and exciting rather than comforting and familiar. 

 

“Stay safe, Rog. I promise I’ll bring my car next time: it’s much better than Brian’s,” John promised, letting go of Roger and going to the driver’s seat. Freddie gave Mads a hug on behalf of all three of them before opening the door to the back seat. 

 

Roger laughed and slung an arm over Mads’ shoulder, kissing her hair before waving at the car as it retreated from the Taylor Estate. 

 

Later that evening, Roger cried for his best friends and there was nothing Mads could do to comfort him.

 

_ Don’t you hear my call though you’re many years away? _

**_Don’t you hear me calling you?_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> krispy-posts.tumblr.com


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